The women in my family have always had a weird relationship to undergarments.
I went through a stage where I wore only g-strings (now called thongs, which used to be what I called plastic open-toed shoes on my feet) when my tush was a twenty-year old's tush and I lived out of two suitcases and needed to travel light. In 1995, it was the day of my brother's wedding and my oldest sister saw my drawers in the dresser drawer of the hotel and with an index finger and a thumb, plucked one from the bureau and asked: "Ewwww. What is this? Do you actually wear this thing?" She has always been the responsible, good, oldest child who can, with a word, make you feel like there is something naughty about the most normal of things (like wearing cheap, portable panties when you are a nomadic single person without a washing machine and an actual piece of furniture in which to store said undergarments).
When I was getting married a couple of years ago, my mom tried to give me *her* negligee from *her* wedding night fifty some odd years prior (that's a really big 'eww'; add to that the fact they have been divorced for over 25 years now). I know I am safe writing this on the interwebs because my mom refuses internet access and has no idea what a blog even is. I have awful memories shopping for bras with her at that painful age of oh-so-embarrassed-by-everything-my-mom-does-says-breathes. She used to drag me to the department store where I would immediately flee into the relative safety of the racks of girdles and push ups and nylons and she, inevitably, would find me across the store and thousands of shoppers, yelling: "Who-hoo! What about this one?" while waving a rubber-band with two peanut shells on it.
The horror.
So today, I've been thinking about the "outfit" I bought for my husband for the Hallmarketday BS Valentine's Hoopla. We were out buying him boxers and socks a couple of weekends ago and walked past the ladies "foundations" department. I asked him if he was into that sort of thing (not a conversation we have had in the last almost six years we have been together; I just assumed my Fruits of the Loom were fine).
"Sure," he said with a grin.
Great, I thought.
So when I had three hours to kill a couple of days ago I went to the mall and spent a ridiculous amount of money on a red "bra" matchy thing. It's bejeweled and itchy and pinchy and totally impractical.
And I will feel totally stoopid wearing it.
But not nearly as stoopid as I felt buying it in the department named for the cement blocks that support most structures, after wandering around for an hour trying to find something tasteful, crotched, age appropriate, with actual fabric that would cover my cheeks and not give me an intentional wedgie (re: what is it with those "boy" shorts? If I want my ass to look ginormous, I don't need a pair of underwear to do it). The sale assistants were two of the youngest, thinnest, like, chicks in the world. I had to sheepishly ask for a bra in my size and they climbed on a ladder and stripped the three display torso mannequins to find the one that would fit me.
I bought a set in black, too. As I walked past the nekkid, plastic, headless boobs, I wondered when, exactly, did I turn into my oldest sister?
Hope you all have great weekends.
(And to my sissy, if you read this, I love you and get. it........ now.)
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